


Percent Adrenaline

by marginaliana



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Blowjobs, M/M, Post-Skyfall, shameless id-fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-02-08
Packaged: 2018-01-11 15:59:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1174985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginaliana/pseuds/marginaliana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The feeling is probably fifty percent adrenaline. (Prompts: adrenaline, dangerous)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Percent Adrenaline

"Down!"

The shout rings out across the street and Q discovers that his knees are obeying the snapped order before he consciously recognizes who had spoken. He drops behind the nearest car and a moment later two things happen at once: a body covers his own, broad and warm, one hand spread over the back of his head to push him down further – Tanner, Q identifies him, though since he has his face pressed against the pavement he's not sure he could say _how_ he knows – and also the glass window of the store behind them explodes violently, glass raining down in a sharp scatter. 

They're half a block from his flat, it's one in the morning, and that was definitely a grenade. And Tanner is still holding him down, which means the grenade was almost certainly meant personally.

"Well, bollocks," says Q, with feeling.

"Stay down," Tanner hisses. He's barely even breathing hard. Q dares to turn his head sideways, just enough that he can see Tanner's hand disappear into his suit jacket and come out with a small, familiar-looking gun – familiar because Q had been the one to approve it for use in the department by anyone who needed something compact and reliable. Lots of the staff carry them now, those who still need to go out and pretend normality for whatever reason – family, usually, but sometimes a cover identity. Q isn't sure what Tanner's reason is, hasn't even thought of asking before, but suddenly he's curious.

Tanner's weight lifts off him. Somewhat distantly, Q can hear someone screaming, but it's a terrified scream rather than a pained scream, which he's learned to be vaguely reassured by. Above his head, Tanner braces against the car, leans up, and fires twice before ducking down again in one smooth motion. Q thinks about reaching into his pocket for his phone, about all the diversionary havoc he can cause in under thirty seconds, but he doesn't get further than fumbling for it before Tanner's hand is on his arm, right where the shirt shows through the hole in his jumper, pulling him to his feet. 

"Come on," Tanner says, and drags him down a nearby alleyway. A shot pings off the bricks just at the corner of the building.

"My flat is that way—" Q protests, though he wants to kick himself even as the words are coming out. Of course Tanner knows where his flat is. More to the point, whoever was lobbing grenades almost certainly knows it, too. Going to his flat is pretty high on the list of 'stupid ideas to suggest' at the moment. 

On the other hand, it's one in the morning and he hasn't slept for two days dealing with the most recent crisis (ugh, Bond _again_ , who seems genuinely incapable of completing a mission without blowing something up or sleeping with someone or both, sometimes at the same time), and someone's just shot at him, so Q decides he can cut himself a little bit of slack.

"Yes," says Tanner. "I know." The look he gives Q is amused, underneath the tense readiness. 

Tanner takes him on a run through a quick series of alleys, twice through the front door of a pub and out the back (with a nod at the bartender each time), and down and around another four blocks until they reach a building of flats that looks almost identical to Q's. They're followed at least part of the way, and shot at again twice, but they seem to lose the pursuit between one pub and the other. Tanner keeps the pistol ready anyway.

Once they get into the lift and the doors slide closed, something about him eases, just slightly. Q's still pretty much in shock, but he gathers up the wherewithal to raise an eyebrow at him and Tanner shrugs. "Almost there," he says. He still hasn't let go of Q's arm.

They go up to the third floor and down the hallway to a door that looks like all the other doors. Tanner finally lets go, just so that he can wrap his hand around the knob and press his fingers in certain places on the jamb. Q has to fight the urge to look away, like he does when waiting in the queue at the cash point (not that he can't get access to whatever account he fancies – it's just politeness). The door clicks open, and Tanner drags him in.

As soon as it's shut behind them Tanner's shoulders drop the rest of the way, and he turns to set the alarm on the panel inside the door with a quickly jabbed sequence. Q feels himself step sideways – not physically, but mentally somehow, going from the place where his job is to be an object, to respond when necessary but mostly to get in the way as little as possible, to the place where his job is to be a brain. He generally prefers the brain place, but at least he's reached the point where being in the object place doesn't really bother him anymore.

Tanner sets the gun on the coffee table and picks up the laptop that's resting there. Q takes it from his hands, lets himself be steered to a seat on the sofa as he opens it up and begins to type. Distantly, he can hear Tanner moving about, doing something that involves water running and the clank of metal on metal. After that, he doesn't hear anything at all, too caught up in tracing cameras and radio transmissions, in decrypting data, in creating a few little surprises of his own and sending them off to cause a little well-deserved havoc. He really doesn't like people throwing grenades at him. It's terribly rude.

When Q's fingers stop moving fifteen minutes later, he discovers there's now a cup of tea on the table, still hot. He sets the laptop down and stretches. 

"Can I call it in, now you're done getting your own back?" Tanner asks. Q starts. He'd almost forgotten Tanner was there. That look of faint amusement is back in Tanner's eyes. "I didn't want to get between you and the keyboard – thought I'd lose an eye, like as not."

"Yes, yes," Q says. "I mean, they'll need someone to clean up. I sent Wilson the addresses already, and the data to Helena." If pressed he'd probably admit to a tiny bit of smugness, but he'd always believed that it didn't count as smugness if you really were brilliant, and killing five people remotely by making electronics explode in contained and plausibly deniable ways definitely counted. They'd been good, but not good enough. He reaches for the tea and takes a sip. "Thanks, by the way." He means the tea, of course, but also the rest.

Tanner shrugs and turns away, picking up his phone. Q frowns at the shrug, but instead of speaking he lets his eyes travel over the sitting room of the safe house, really taking it in for the first time. There's a television and stereo, a set of shelves with books – many of them obviously well-read – and CDs, a closed-up desk with a cheap lamp on top. From the sofa he can see into a tidy kitchen with a blue kettle on the stove and, on the counter next to it, an enormous coffee maker. Beneath Q's arm, draped over the back of the sofa, is an orange and brown afghan, lumpy and obviously handmade and beginning to unravel at the corner. This, Q realizes, is not a safe house.

When Tanner comes back, thumbing off his phone, he says, "They're on it. Wilson said to stay put for now. They'll call when they've had a look at your place." He's still dressed in the suit he'd worn to the office today, navy with grey pinstripe, grey shirt, striped tie.

Q says, "Is this actually your flat?"

Tanner shrugs again, and Q can see a faint flush on the tips of his ears. "We're only a few blocks from yours," he says. "It was closest." 

Something glints in the light as Tanner turns away towards the window. Q puts the tea down and gets to his feet, crosses the room until he's standing beside Tanner, looking down at the distant street. He reaches up and plucks the shard of glass from Tanner's collar. Really he's surprised they're not both covered in it. He can feel the heat of Tanner's pale skin, half an inch from his fingertips. "You've got—"

Tanner's head snaps sideways, and for a moment he's every inch the taut, efficient, _dangerous_ MI6 staff member. Before Q quite knows what's happening, Tanner has a hand around his wrist, holding on tight, almost to the edge of pain.

It shouldn't be a surprise. Q remembers what things had been like after Silva, after the old M, the way Tanner had grimly set himself to work improving his physical condition and marksmanship, building himself up to what he thinks he should have been (Q doesn't think it would have saved her, but he's carrying enough of his own guilt that he's hardly going to judge how anyone else assuages theirs). 

Q's seen him use those new skills a few times since – has, in point of fact, seen him use them twenty sodding minutes ago – but Tanner's usual mild and sarcastic appearance is so all-consuming that he keeps forgetting there's something else underneath. That's probably intentional on Tanner's part, which Q can appreciate, but that doesn't mean it isn't a shock to suddenly have the rug pulled out from under him.

" _Fuck_ ," says Tanner, and drops Q's wrist like it's on fire. "Sorry, I—"

Q doesn't let him finish, just flicks the bit of glass onto the windowsill and fists his hand in Tanner's collar to pull him close. And then they're kissing desperately, open-mouthed and slick from the first instant their lips touch. Tanner groans into Q's mouth, licks at him, traces the line of his teeth with the tip of his tongue. Q crowds him up against the wall and keeps on kissing him, enjoying the surge of want that sweeps through him when he gets his legs on either side of Tanner's broad thigh. 

The feeling is probably fifty percent adrenaline. But that leaves a hell of a lot of room for it to also be about the way Tanner is flushed across his cheeks and down the pale spread of his neck, about the way he's already half hard against Q's thigh, about the way Q has caught himself trying to make Tanner laugh more than once over the last few months, and right now wants to make him moan and laugh and come, maybe all together.

"Tanner—" he says, and then, because he's going to have to say that name in the office tomorrow, "Bill, fuck—"

Another groan, and Tanner's hands are in his hair, pulling his head back to expose the column of Q's throat so he can bite down, just short of too hard. Q nearly shouts, has to bite his own lip to stifle the noise. Tanner sucks at the bite, demanding; Q thinks, dimly, that he's going to be marked there tomorrow. "Bill—" he says, and, "g-god—" He's pretty sure he could get off right here, just like this, grinding himself down against Tanner's leg in sharp, shuddering motions. But there's another image in Q's head, even more irresistible: Tanner's tie half undone, the suit jacket loose on his shoulders, his shirttails rumpled as Q goes down on his knees and sucks his cock dry.

The thought makes him gasp. "Can I—" he starts, then stalls out abruptly as Tanner licks a wet line up his neck. " _God_."

Tanner laughs, a little wild, like he can't help himself. "What's that, genius boy?" he says. His teeth scrape lightly over Q's skin. "Christ, I'm going to have a tremendous ego after this." This last is a murmur, almost like he's speaking more to himself than Q, but it's enough to soothe the sting to Q's pride.

Still, Q discards the idea of asking for what he wants and just wriggles free instead. It takes a moment to disengage – his fucking elbows, always getting in the way – but then he's going to his knees, hands already moving to Tanner's belt.

" _Fuck_ ," Tanner says, and then, "I need to—" He twists sideways just enough to rest his weight on the windowsill. Q gets the belt buckle undone and pulls down the zip of Tanner's trousers, dips a hand into his briefs and wraps it around his cock without further ado. Tanner groans, dropping his head back until it clunks against the window. Q can see the flush all down his neck into the collar of his shirt, the faint sheen of sweat on his Adam's apple.

"I actually _am_ a genius," Q informs him, giving Tanner's cock a shallow stroke.

"Never doubted you," Tanner says fervently. "Q—"

Q grins at him. He's got the upper hand at the moment, so he spends five seconds getting Tanner exactly where he wants him: knees spread, trousers and pants shoved down, shirttails mussed and parted to frame the blunt length of his cock, standing hard and proud between his legs.

"Whenever you're done rearranging the furniture," Tanner says, with a hint of sarcasm. Q gives him a raised eyebrow, challenging, though he's not entirely sure why he's dragging it out until Tanner reaches up and fists a hand in Q's hair.

" _Now_ ," Tanner says, not loudly but more than halfway to a demand nonetheless, and Q dips his head without even thinking about it.

 _Oh,_ he thinks, and then, _Well, yes, all right._ He's not exactly surprised by the realization that he likes his men competent, snide, and a little bit pushy, and anyway he'd rather suck Tanner off than psychoanalyze himself, just at the moment. He licks the head of Tanner's cock, tasting him, then parts his lips and goes down as smoothly as he can manage, hands braced on Tanner's knees for support. Tanner makes a choked noise, but he doesn't let go of Q's hair, just tugs at him in a somewhat uncoordinated fashion. Q smirks around his mouthful and sucks hard, looking up from underneath his eyelashes in his best sultry manner. 

"Ah—" Tanner says, and, "Fuck— Q, fuck," and,"Just like that. God, just like that." From down here, the view is everything Q had hoped for; Tanner looks wrecked, desperate, and the contrast of his wild eyes and bitten lips and his prim and proper suit makes something inside Q go molten and wanting. Q pulls back a little, rubs his tongue all over the underside of Tanner's cock and then sucks him down again, deep and slow until Tanner is gasping. Tanner is velvet-textured, hot where Q's lips and tongue press against him, and his thighs are sweating underneath Q's hands. "Fuck," he says, and then, helpless, "You gorgeous little fucker."

Q hums his amusement, and Tanner curses again, tightening his hand in Q's hair. The pull of it aches, but in the best way, and Q arches his back into the feeling. His cock is heavy and throbbing – he half wants to reach down and get his trousers open, to curl his fist around his cock and come with Tanner still hard in his mouth. But he feels too good to let it end so quickly, so he keeps his hands where they are, feeling the flex of muscle beneath his palms.

"Harder," Tanner says, and Q sucks obediently, as hard as he can manage, until Tanner comes with a groan, sticky and salty over the back of his tongue. Q can see the cords in Tanner's neck flex under the skin. He keeps on sucking through it, more gently now but determined to wring out the last shudders, until Tanner yanks at his hair enough to pull him backwards.

"Christ," Tanner says, and then, "You— I'm going to—" He slides off the windowsill and down to his knees, pushing at Q's shoulder hard enough that Q goes down on his back. By now he's absolutely aching for it, so he doesn't protest. And then Tanner is undoing his belt, shoving his trousers and pants down. Q wriggles helpfully out of them until he's bare-arsed against the carpet. "Yeah," Tanner says, shoving Q's legs apart. "Stay right there."

Q digs his fingertips into the carpet as Tanner leans down and rubs his face against Q's thighs slowly, first one and then the other, the hint of roughness to his cheek rasping over soft skin and making Q shiver. Tanner mouths at the skin there, and on Q's hip and in the valley next to his left testicle, then bites him, open-mouthed, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to be threatening. Q mouths the word "Fuck" silently at the ceiling. Tanner's hands seem huge where they're wrapped around his thighs. Q's cock is twitching in the air, dripping precome; when Tanner finally takes him in he groans, low and desperate, at the feeling of heat and suction.

It doesn't take long. Q makes a valiant effort at not going off like a fucking firecracker, but Tanner's mouth is slick and he knows what he's doing, knows all the places to slide the curve of his tongue or press the tip of it. And then he moves one hand down, behind the spit-slick curve of Q's balls and back, until the tip of his finger skates over Q's hole, not pushing in but just resting there, and Q is gone, gone, gone.

When he starts being able to think in words again, and not just splashes of color and jumbled fragments of code, he discovers that Tanner's face is pressed against his knee, his breath puffing quick and blustery over the skin. 

"Bill," Q says, and then, "Come here?" It comes out more tentative than he'd been aiming for, but Tanner surges upwards like a spring uncoiling. Then they're kissing again, less urgent than before but still warm and deep and sloppy. Q curls his arm around Tanner's shoulder and hangs on. What he wants – maybe it's still partly adrenaline, maybe twenty five percent. But the rest of it is definitely... something else. Q's not quite ready to put his finger on what, exactly. He just hopes he doesn't have to get shot at again for a repeat performance.


End file.
